


An ivory elephant standing in the room

by livinginadaydream (orphan_account)



Category: Disney RPF, Jonas Brothers
Genre: Angst, Gen, Secret Garden AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-07-02
Updated: 2010-07-02
Packaged: 2017-10-12 17:57:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/127509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/livinginadaydream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's marble floors, pianos, and cholera. It's being a world apart from a brother, and suddenly being thrust into it with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An ivory elephant standing in the room

It seemed there was constant music in the background, sitar, deft fingers across the ivory keys of the piano kept in the dining room off to the side. Only at dinner parties would the piano be played, except for the rare occasion mother would settle on the bench and draw out an unexpected melody from a dainty hand. Only when mother was taken by boredom and father was gone as he was so many days of the year, only when there was no one to call for her. Nicholas, when he caught the notes being carried through the house, would creep down the stairs carefully, and would listen from the wall separating the kitchen from the dining room, servants walking around him, ignoring him. A master ought not be spoken to unless spoken to first, unless an inquiring eyebrow raised, unless a glare required apology, but even then, it was mostly silent bows.

Sitar, however, played smoothly from the streets and into the open windows of their home, large and elegant, nothing like that of the civilians'. India was a far cry from the elegant streets of England, not that England didn't have its areas to be ignored. There were plenty, but India was full of dirt and trees, and beautiful no doubt, but hardly what one could call civilized, in all parts, including "up town". There was the palace to the right, and five yards away, your average home, a shack made of branches and banana tree leaves. As an English Major General, Paul Jonas acquired a home of marble, of solid base, of true shelter, and even of comfort with a sitting area, a dining table fit for ten, and other pieces of furniture only the natives of servitude would know about, and even then, they never fully understood. A cot felt nothing like a mattress of feathers.

Music always captured his attention, and even though at a young age of three, he knew that humming would be order for a verbal reprimand from his father, he continued to do so when alone. His amah given to him at birth had never been one to pass down similar negativity about Nicholas' interaction with the gentle sounds that reached him, and so he was allowed to hum, even make up words sometimes, in the presence of anyone but his mother and father. His amah was really the only one allowed to attend to him anyway, and he hardly ever asked after another servant, so it was not their duty to punish him for disobeying his father.

Father was a good man, well-respected as far as his son could tell, but Nicholas rarely had more than a few minutes of contact with him at a time, and for the most part, did not know who his father was, nor the people who fell to one knee in front of him, so to speak. They were all in a fair rough spot, in Nicholas' opinion. If father was only around him for a few seconds and could find something to trouble him with, he could not imagine spending literal days with the man, what it must be like.

Mother was without a sweet disposition, taking to quietly wandering around the house, fussing over the heat, requiring foot baths, glasses of wine, picture books, books of fabric for decorating that she was too lazy to make happen. He loved her, of course, but she was hardly a mother and more of a visage of one who might one day be a mother. Nicholas, sometimes, liked to think of the days that would one day come where she would kneel before his bed, wake him up, and ask him to eat with her at the table for breakfast that morning. Never once did he voice this, not to anyone, because it was absurd and he knew that he should not even consider it, for it would never happen. Still, he hoped. He had hope for her with every smile to cross her face, as fleeting as they were, in his direction, as he grew, as his jaw became more distinct, as his eyes became deeper, more knowing.

But it was while she was at the piano that he forgot she was his mother, a mother at all. He could picture her in a House somewhere, playing for a silent audience. Perhaps she wasn't all that good, but the only comparisons he had were her friends, the wives to the gentlemen his father worked with, commanded, and the husbands themselves, come to dine with mother and father on a rare night. Then, however, it was usually of a more upbeat tempo, unlike when his mother played, alone, a wistful tune sometimes turned sad, lonely. It always made him straighten his back, suck in a breath of pride in her, made him want to turn the corner and sit beside her, but she wasn't his mother then, and even if she were, it would be useless. He would have shocked her into leaving. He would have been forced to stare at the keys of the piano until it seemed enough time had passed that he could leave with his dignity somewhat intact, because all he'd really wanted to do was to study the layout of the keyboard in any case, and so he would have done by the time he slid off the bench. Nicholas knew that would be the case. So he stayed standing at attention on the other side of the wall.

When her friends were over, suddenly she was quite the butterfly, beautiful, wings spread, laughter like music itself. Sometimes Nicholas could hear her tell stories while he stole peeks at the adults gathered around with their glasses of dark red wine, sitting behind plates full of turkey, grapes, roasted onions, lettuce with grated Parmesan. Nicholas received pasta and steamed potatoes at a table in the kitchen if he got hungry during the party. Only after could he come out and take part in what was leftover of the small feast the adults had been served. It was a sight to see, and something he longed for himself, to be old enough to hold conversations, to tell stories, only he knew he didn't have anything particularly interesting to tell. It would have been a waste anyway, for him to have friends.

Toys were almost non-existent as well. Mostly he had books, and when he was young, he had a tutor for a short amount of time, who came to teach him basic reading skills as well as basic arithmetic. Once those days were gone, he missed them, despite all his efforts to make his teacher loathe him. Loathe him he did, but not enough to dissuade him from teaching his student. From there, he was able to teach himself more, but father and mother were rather unconcerned. As far as they were aware, they had another son who was only about education, who would be sure to live up to the family name. If, one day, Nicholas fell off the face of the earth, there would still be a Jonas son to carry the banner of the name and hold up witty conversation about his military leader of a father, and to pronounce the beauty of his mother to the wide world. The son they sent to live with mother's brother-in-law, Joseph, just after being weened from breast milk. The brother Nicholas only knew the name of, barely ever thought of, except that perhaps they were both in the same boat, even across the great expanse of Europe, one in India, the other in England. The two sons without parents, wealthy masters by name, but nothing much out of context.

Alone, perhaps, was Nicholas, but at least he had his mother's ivory elephant.

-

Cholera hit India pretty hard. Left and right, there were dead bodies. Quarantines were not keeping the disease from spreading, and there was a heaviness to the atmosphere. Mother's friends called less, and father was gone more often, even, than before. It wasn't a disease easily dealt with, acting fast and spreading wide through paths unforeseeable. Nicholas knew little of it. All the whispers stopped as he walked into the room. Being a lot older now, he'd grown up running into the conversations of servants, even becoming bored long enough, often enough to stop outside of rooms they gathered in, listening, sometimes watching. He'd picked up words here and there, and soon he could understand basic discussions.

It was sort of empowering, and sometimes Nicholas braved it, walking into a room, and asking for something he needed in _their_ language. They were still below him, of course, but he figured that if he spoke to them in their own tongue, he might... Well he wasn't really sure. It just seemed as though it might be something to do. As it turned out, it had been, and they had smiled at him, reacting as if they were happy to do what he asked. After that, he tried as often as he dared, but that wasn't as often as he liked.

The disease stayed at bay for quite some time, his father out, fighting against it, he supposed, keeping up barriers, controlling the animals, crazed from the drought. Things, Nicholas had supposed, were getting better when father returned home one afternoon, kissing mother full on the lips, cradling her in his arms like the porcelain doll she was. That had almost caused a smile to break out on Nicholas' face, and he had stepped out from the hall so that his father, red tail coat and all could see his proud boy was growing up. However, Paul walked passed him, not even looking down as he placed a hand shortly atop his shoulder before walking back to their bedroom, calling for his main servant, as he turned swiftly up the stairs.

Paul was bathed, and clothed, and came down at nightfall when mother began letting in their guests. A party was to be had, a celebration. Nicholas didn't dare smile, even as Randolph, his favorite soldier came and lifted his chin to meet his eyes, giving a daring look back, a smirk on his mouth. When Nick, as Randolph called him, did not respond with the usual hide-my-happiness closed-mouth grin, he cuffed Nick on the top of the head, curls bouncing a little in the wake, and then tossed a coin up into the air. Nicholas, he knew, would not be able to resist the urge to catch it. And so he did, holding it carefully between both his palms. It became a bit of a treasure then, and once he caught it, he felt a bit like gold himself, and gave Randolph that grin he'd wanted.

Once the dinner began, Randolph departed to his sit, flashing a smile at Nick before shooing him off. Nick ran a bit unlike himself, or at least unlike how he was taught. Amah caught him sneaking into his parents' bedroom, but didn't stop him, a knowing look on her face. Nicholas paid her no mind. Once he was inside the room, he became all but an angel, quieting, careful footsteps up to his mother's dresser where he found her, his mother's ivory elephant.

She was his only friend, and his best confidant. If sometimes he let his mind wander to a place where he could play the piano, where he knew his own brother, where his mother let him eat by her side, and where his father cared about his future, she knew. Most times he was able to hold her, he payed careful attention, having a firm grasp upon her, but with the coin pressed to the inside of one palm, afraid to set it down, or even in his pocket lest he lose it, his hands were slippery with sweat. When a wail came from outside, near the courtyard where the servants slept, he dropped her for the first time, and watched wide-eyed as she felt to the floor, a tusk broken off, and something ripping at his chest as it flew beneath the dresser table.

Quickly, still holding to Randolph's gift, he bowed to the ground, knees slamming down onto the floor, then his stomach until he was flat and using one hand to pull himself forward so he could reach underneath. As he searched for the piece, he grew frantic and more frantic until he heard footsteps coming up to the room. Suspecting his mother wished to dowse some more of her perfume onto her neck, he slipped carefully under the bed.

The tassels hanging from the coverlet obstructed his view entirely, but he fit comfortably in the dark space. If he was nothing, in nothing he could not fear. In reality it was Amah come to find him, to hide him from the death that she had seen, tears down her face, a sort of panic that could only manifest itself through silence and inability to cry out, to speak, to think of the language of her masters. It was a fear that all around her, including the boy she had raised, come to think of as her master-son, would die, and she too, would fall victim to it. Amah didn't have a great understanding of the disease, but she had thought that perhaps if she tucked her master safe into his bed, that he would wake up well. Her heart clenched, of course, when in the room she had seen him last, he was no where to be found.

She searched the house that night, but she never once thought to look under the master bed where he had been taken by sleep.

In the morning when he awoke, for a long while he was afraid to emerge, wondering what time it was, and if his mother would still be in bed, or if she was awake and would catch him crawling out from a space he had no place residing in. At first a peek, lifting the tassels, he saw that it was bright, and flitting into his nose was the distinct smell of smoke, a filthy smell and he covered his mouth with the hand that held the coin to keep himself from sputtering all too loudly. The daylight convinced him that it would be safe to keep his view, so he didn't drop the coverlet back to the floor as he listened. The house was silent.

Slowly climbing out from beneath the bed, his eyebrows rose to find the bed empty, looking as it had the night before. Figuring the servants had already dutifully entered the room and made the bed, he shrugged. If mother had not noticed her missing elephant, the one he held in his palm at that moment, then he suspected she would not miss it at all. He kept it in his hand, and fisted the coin in the other as he exited the bedroom, looking each way before every turn as not to get caught making his way back to his room to find Amah.

Where she should have been waiting for him quite awake, Amah was slumped over in the chair beside his chest of books. He eyed her suspiciously, spoke to her in her tongue, to get up immediately, to dress him. When no response came, he examined her more carefully, and when it looked as though she was not breathing, he removed himself from his bedroom and began a slow search for his mother. Something was wrong with their servants, and it was unacceptable. She would be proud of him for letting her know, he thought.

When he approached the dining room table, the food was still gathered on the plates, mostly eaten, and there was mother, in a chair, looking something like Amah. Nicholas carefully reached over and stole a grape from one of the plates, popping it into his mouth and closing his eyes to the gush of juice. So much better than steamed potatoes... Before going into the kitchen to find another servant, he hoped, he drank from his mother's glass a stale flavor of wine filling his mouth, but as a growing boy, he thought to himself, that it must be better than water.

It was when he entered the kitchen that he realized something was wrong, as in very, very wrong. His father, a man he barely even saw seated, let alone lying down, was slumped on the floor beside the fireplace, face pale, chest still, and Nicholas knew that couldn't be right. Father would never...

A loud bang against the door had Nicholas jumping out of his skin, and he turned just as the kitchen door swung open. There stood Randolph looking every bit of a stern man as his father had been, face fallen at the site of Paul Jonas, deceased Major General of the English forces. Without more than a seconds' wait, Nicholas was being swept up into Randolph's arms and carried out the door. Out into the brightness of the street, smoke clouded his vision, and Nicholas could only gather that the whole town must be on fire. Curiosity only really took him when Randolph turned to another man in a red jacket and said very harshly, a tone not used before in Nick's presence, "Burn everything. Everything..." His sad eyes turned down to Nicholas momentarily, before he was ushering Nicholas into a carriage and leaving him alone in the seat telling the soldier sitting up front to take him to head quarters immediately, that Nicholas had a brother Joseph in England staying with their uncle Archibald Craven, to get him sent their immediately. Without a goodbye, or even one of Randolph's admirable smiles, Nick was sent rumbling down the dirt road.

At age twelve he was an orphan.


End file.
